Æthelstan had requested that I accompany him to Brunanburh and I had thought it was simply an opportunity for him to tell me about his hopes for Mercia and Englaland, or perhaps to meet Ingilmundr, but it seemed there was another reason. He was waiting for me at the fort’s gate, and, when we joined him, he beckoned for me to walk a small way eastward. Ingilmundr left us alone. Four guards followed us, but stayed well out of earshot. I sensed that Æthelstan was nervous. He commented on the weather, on his plans to rebuild Ceaster’s bridge, on his hopes for a good spring planting, on anything, it seemed, rather than the purpose of our meeting. “What did you think of Ingilmundr?” he asked when we had exhausted the prospects of harvest.

“He’s clever,” I said.

“Just clever?”

“Vain,” I said, “untrustworthy and dangerous.”

Æthelstan seemed shocked by that answer. “I count him as a friend,” he said stiffly, “and I hoped you would too.”

“Why?”

“He’s proof we can live together in peace.”

“He still wears Thor’s hammer.”

“So do you! But he is learning better! He’s eager for the truth. And he has enemies among the other Norse, and that could make him a friend to us, a good friend.”

“You sent him missionaries?” I asked.

“Two priests, yes. They tell me he is earnest in his search for truth.”

“I want to know about your other missionaries,” I went on, “those you sent to the Norse who settled south of the Ribbel.”

He shrugged. “We sent six, I believe. They are brothers.”

“You mean monks? Black monks?”

“They are Benedictines, yes.”

“And did one of them have a scar across his tonsure?”

“Yes!” Æthelstan stopped and looked at me, puzzled, but I offered him no explanation for my question. “Brother Beadwulf has that scar,” he told me. “He tells me he had an argument with his sister when he was a child and he likes to say she gave him his first tonsure.”

“She should have slit his throat,” I said, “because I’m going to tear his belly open from his crotch to his breastbone.”

“God forgive you!” Æthelstan sounded horrified. “They already call you the priest-killer!”

“Then they can call me monk-killer too,” I said, “because your Brother Beadwulf is my Brother Osric.”

Æthelstan flinched. “You can’t be sure,” he said uncertainly.

I ignored his words. “Where did you send Brother Beadwulf or whatever he’s called?”

“To a man called Arnborg.”

“Arnborg?”

“A Norse chieftain who once held land on Monez. He was driven out by the Welsh, and settled on the coast north of here. He leads maybe a hundred men? I doubt he has more than a hundred.”

“How far north?”

“He came to the Ribbel with three ships and found land on the southern bank of the river. He swore to keep the peace and pay us tribute.” Æthelstan looked troubled. “The monk is a tall man, yes? Dark hair?”

“And with a scar that looked as if someone had opened up his head from one ear to the other. I wish they had.”